


Repressed Memories

by rosalynbair



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, stephen kings it
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Child Death, Child Murder, Choking, Cunnilingus, Death Threats, Dissociation, Dread, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fingering, Flashbacks, Hypnosis, Hypnotism, Manipulation, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Repressed Memories, Smut, Solipsism, Swearing, Therapy, a lil ooc patrick, a lot of description, childhood therapy, writing quality goes down throughout this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 08:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14374638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosalynbair/pseuds/rosalynbair
Summary: Derry, Maine was known for it's horrible summer storms and it's high missing persons rate. It was nothing to you, until your memories of living in Derry as a child resurface when you become neighbors with your childhood friend, Patrick Hockstetter.





	Repressed Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disorderedorder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorderedorder/gifts), [DarthDre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthDre/gifts), [BeepBeepBitchie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeepBeepBitchie/gifts).



> Ahh I started writing this at 3am a week ago when the topic came up in the Discord chat and now it’s officially the longest oneshot i’ve ever posted. 
> 
> Find more of my work on tumblr @rosalynbair - feedback is always welcome
> 
> (the dog in the fic is loosely based off of my stupid dog Finn)

The summer humidity shown bright on your skin in the form of glistening sweat and rain water, the breeze coming in through the car window still warm and muggy, not giving you any satisfaction of cooling off in the drive.   
Trees flew by you as you drive the windy highway down a hill, curving around a mountain like rise. Walls of rocks on your right with barely standing trees in the hostile environment. Wind rustling the pines and blowing their branches harshly, warping them to the way of the hurricane like weather.  
Your head bounced and vibrated against the window you rested it on, the mist of the rain hitting you from your mother’s partially open window from the front seat. You had long ago taken off your sunglasses, no longer needing them once you crossed the state border into Maine.   
The state was in one of its worst storms in years, the fog and mist thick around the road and trees. No matter how many times the windshield wipers passed over the glass, you still couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of the car. It had been raining in the state for days, flooding obstructing and closing roads in most of the cities – your father had to add an extra five hours onto the drive to avoid any road closures towards the small town of Derry.  
Derry, Maine. Small, irrelevant, almost non-existent if it weren’t for the crime shows that showed the statistics of the missing adults and children. Derry, irrelevant to you for so many years, now on the foreground of your mind for the first time since you moved away when you were a pre-schooler. The winding pavement of highway 95 leading towards the town looked more ominous than it had years prior when you were driving away from the cursed town.   
You adjusted your body, your back leaning against the door as you brought your sock clad feet up onto the seat, wiggling your toes under the large brown Chesapeake Bay Retriever that took up two seats of the back bench. You reach your arm over, fingers just reaching the head of your companion. You scratch the top of his head gently, thumb massaging under his ear.   
Scout looked up to you when you pulled your hand back, adjusting the thin cardigan around your chest and torso before resting your head against the seat. Your eyes closed for a few moments, and you thought back to the last memories you had of Derry. You vaguely recalled a sunflower farm that had been kept and maintained by an older man for his wife when she had gotten sick – he had let you play in the field once, and even let you keep a flower. The dried petals now held a home in a clear, unburned candle you had made a few years ago in an art class.   
You remembered your old room, which held a big window that overlooked the farm your parents once owned. And the lavender paint of the walls and the white desk that your old yellow Labrador used to sleep under while you worked away on drawings that often ended up on the fridge in the kitchen.   
Your mind wandered to your babysitter that your parents had hired after the only daycare shut down. She had been your parents age, and you barely remember her losing her youngest son. That was right before your dad got a new job transfer to a state across the country. You mom often referred to it as blessing in disguise, especially since a few months after you moved to California, your mother had gotten the news that a few children from your grade had gone missing.   
After that, you didn’t hear anything about Derry again until a few months ago. When your father had announced that you were moving back to your birthplace, so he could open a mechanic shop for his company. We won’t be there for long, your father had told you, just until the company could find a franchise owner. And then we’ll be back in sunny California.   
You hadn’t thought about Derry since you had moved away. You could barely remember the people in the town other than in fleeting moments of blurred faces in scattered memories. Only a few memories had fully resurfaced, your mom had blamed your lack of knowledge about your life in the town on how young you were when you had left, but you had always been good at remembering things.   
But as your blue Chevrolet Malibu got closer to the town, a pit began to form in your stomach. The signs leading to the city were old, the white letters barely visible after so many years of rain and wear. The poles the green signs were nailed to were rusted and leaning over. Even the Welcome to Derry sign was old and rundown.   
You would have thought that a town would at least keep up their welcome sign. Who would want to come to a town that couldn’t even take care of their sign?   
Your eyes scanned the old buildings as you turned onto the main road. The two blocks of store fronts were old, their paint faded and the signs no longer inviting. Each building was connected with black wires along the street for the electricity.   
There were no other cars active on the road. There were a few outdated ones parked in a used car lot, and a few parked on the side of the road. But as the rain pelted against every surface, you felt more alone than you ever had before. There was nothing in this small east coast town that even remotely resembled your California. There was no sound of crashing waves against the pier, there was no sound of traffic or of pedestrians along the sidewalks. There were no street musicians or beggars. There was just silence.   
The radio echoed throughout your ears, the soft sounds of some acoustic indie artist your mother had discovered on her Spotify tuned out and muted by the heavy rains against the top of the car, though you could still make out the gentle plucks of the guitar strings and the fluctuation of the musician’s voice.  
Your dad turns off of the main road, no longer needing the GPS as he navigated the rundown, pot hole filled streets of his hometown. The old houses blurred as your vision lost focus, yourself too lazy to blink and regain the focus. A few more turns, and your car was pulling into a sand and gavel driveway of a white, two storey house.   
Your body turns, feet hitting the footwell of the car as you unbuckle your seatbelt to bend down and grab your shoes. Slipping the canvas over your feet easily as you sigh.  
“This is only temporary.” Your dad says quietly as he pulled the keys from the ignition. He wasn’t talking to you, or even your mom. He was muttering to himself, reassuring himself as he stared at the house in front of him.   
You were the first to get out of the car, tugging your cardigan around you as you turned back to the car where you had been sitting, reaching in to grab your backpack that held your most important possessions.   
“C’mon Scout.” You say, patting your thigh quickly to tempt him out of his dry haven. He releases a loud huff before standing on the seat, padding out of the car and hopping onto the rocky ground. “Go pee, I don’t want to have to come back out here.”  
You walk with Scout, watching him as he went to the front yard and taking shelter under the big oak tree to do his business as you hopped up onto the covered porch. You barely acknowledged the old wooden swing that had peeling paint and a torn-up cushion on it while your dad fumbled with getting the front door open.   
Your mom bounced on her heels, holding a small carry on suitcase in her hands as she waited impatiently for the door to open. With one final push to the door, it opened inwards, revealing a dusty foyer with old tile – a few of which were cracked.   
“We can fix this up.” Your dad insisted to no one, stepping aside to allow your mother entry first. You glanced back, seeing Scout trotting over to the porch and taking the steps in one leap, his red leash dragging behind him.   
You step into the house, the smell of dust filling your nostrils. Your scrunch your nose. “When was the last time anyone was in here?” You ask, glancing over to your dad as he shut the door behind him.   
“The landlord said it’s been a few years.” He shrugged, unzipping his college alumni windbreaker and hanging it up onto a hook on the wall.   
“They could have at least tidied up a bit, they knew we were coming.” Your mother grumbles to him, following his movements of taking off her coat and boots.   
You sit on the small bench that sat under the hooks, reaching down to unlace your shoes before tossing them onto the shoe rack.   
“Your boxes are in your room, hon.” Your mom tells you. “The movers dropped them off yesterday.”  
You nod, reaching over to Scout to take his leash off, hanging it up with the coats. You follow down the hallway, the kitchen and dining room to your right with the stairs going up to the bedrooms on the left.   
Scout jogs passed you up the steps when you began the climb, the grey painted stairs slippery with grime under your feet.   
The hardwood of the upstairs hallway had dirt cluttered onto it, and you let out a sigh of annoyance – knowing full well that your mom would dedicate the next few days to aggressively cleaning the house until it was spotless. And you knew that she would also drag you into it, as it was summer and there was no school, and this storm was supposed to last at least another week.   
You turn right, seeing the outdated bathroom and a bedroom with an open door. Scout had already located his small basket of toys, pulling his rope out with a wag of his tail and a shake of his head. “Good boy.” You smile at him, entering the room and dropping your bag onto the bed that had been provided the landlord.   
With the hit of your bag, dust rose into the air, along with the smell of dampness and lack of use. You release a groan, already longing for your cushy feather bed that had been left in storage in California until the storm passed.   
You walk to the window, pulling away the curtains after pulling your sleeves over your hands so you didn’t have to touch the fabric directly. Your fingers grab onto the string, pulling and letting the blinds raise up to reveal part of your backyard and the back half of your neighbor’s house.   
The light from outside was sparse, and you let out another sigh once more, flicking the switch to a light that didn’t work.   
“Mom!” You call, annoyance lacing your words. “My light doesn’t work!”  
“I’ll get a bulb later! Use your string lights!” She calls up to you from the kitchen.   
You nod, glancing around you as you search for your box you had labeled with your tapestry and string lights. Finding it under one of the boxes of books, you pull it out, using the small knife on your lanyard to tear the tape so you could open the box.   
You take out the tapestry of a black and white mandala and set it onto the somewhat modern, but poor-quality desk before reaching in to grab the copper wired lights. With them in your hands, you look around your room, plotting where to put the clear hooks that they would rest on, and to locate where the outlet was so you could plug them in.  
The process was slow, hanging each hook with it’s sticky strip in a location where the wires wouldn’t dip too much so it could be kept high up on the walls. It was only as you were climbing down from standing on your desk that you noticed your neighbor’s light had turned on in the bedroom directly across from yours, a few heads peeking in the window, and despite not being able to see much other than their silhouettes, you knew they were staring at you.   
You turn quickly away from the window, moving over to plug in the lights that now held their place as the only decoration in your room. Your once dim room lit up with the warm glow of the LED lights, illuminating how dirty everything was, showing off the vomit and piss stains on the bare mattress, which you cringed at.   
“I found you some sheets and a blanket.” You mom says, pushing your door open with her hip, her eyes land on the stained mattress and she winces. “I’ll call the movers in the morning and get them to start moving the rest of our stuff out here, I don’t want you sleeping on that for too long.”  
“Thanks.” You yawn, taking the sheets from her, letting her put the blanket on a stack of boxes. “Can you help me?”  
You mom nods, unfolding the pale pink fitted sheet with you, shaking it open fully, lifting the corner of the mattress to wrap the sheet around it. It only took a few moments to get it all set up and made nicely, the loose sheet wrapped nicely in a nurse’s fold at the end of the bed – curtesy of your mother’s 25 years as a nurse in a prestigious hospital.   
You climb onto the bed, sighing. “How long are we going to be here?” You ask her as she sits on the edge of your bed.   
“Hopefully less than six months.” She says, pulling her greying hair up into a knot. “But who knows, it could take a while for someone to lay claim to the new shop. We only have to be here because your dad was born here.”  
“You don’t like Derry, do you?” You ask, prying slightly. You lean forward, the bed groaning under the movement.   
“No, I don’t.” She answers. “I never did, but your dad has a connection to everything here. I never connected to the people here, to the town. Too many bad things have happened here, it… lays over the town like a bad omen.”  
You nod, looking at your mom. You were almost the spitting image of her, with the same features and same build. Though, the California sun liked her a lot more than it liked you. Her perfectly tanned skin showed that.   
“We’ll be home soon, I don’t want you to have to graduate here.” She tells you. “And you’re going to college next year, you want to be close to your friends when you graduate and go off to school, you don’t want to be isolated here like I was.”  
You stare at her, seeing her annoyance with being here again. “I’m gonna go to bed.” You tell her, glancing over to where Scout had gotten up to drink from his bowl.  
“Okay hon.” She says, leaning over to place a kiss onto your forehead. She stands, glancing out the window to where she also saw the silhouettes of the boys you had seen. She shakes her head, bringing the blinds down to block the view of the peepers. “Goodnight, dad and I are down the hall if you need anything, but we’ll be up for a while to unpack some of the kitchen.”  
“Okay.” You yawn, stretching your arms over your head, t-shirt riding up slightly before falling back into place when you put your arms out in front of you, fingers laced together, the joints popping while your mom left the room, the door closing behind her tightly.   
You flop back against the pillow you had brought into the car with you, reaching over to grab your phone off the night table beside your bed. You press the home button, your fingerprint opening it to the home screen where each app was lit up with red dots with white numbers to show off your notifications.   
Your thumb scrolls, tapping against your messaging app. You scrolled through your unread messages, replying to a few from some friends that wanted to make sure you got to the new house safely, your group chat already planning a skype call once you were unpacked so you could give them a tour of the house.   
A few more minutes on your phone, and you locked it, setting it back onto the table with the screen down. You roll, facing the wall with a sigh, not bothering to change out of your leggings or t-shirt. They were comfortable enough to sleep in.   
Scout hopped up onto the bed, maneuvering his body to lay beside you on the small bed. You adjust, curling up under the blanket once you got it pulled over your body. Your arm wraps around Scout, fingers scratching at his coarse hair as you closed your eyes.   
You could hear your parents moving around downstairs, pots banging against each other when they pulled them out of boxes and placed them into the cupboards. There was also a distinct sound of classic rock music coming up to meet your ears, mingling in with Scout’s soft snores and the pouring rain that had yet to ease up.   
Sleep met you gently, letting you fade into it slowly.  
There was no light that came in through the blinds in the morning, and you were greeted to the sound of the unrelenting rain once more. You release a groan, rubbing at your eyes and rolling over away from the window, your arm flopping over your eyes.   
You laid there for a while, only moving when Scout released a whine, signalling that he needed to go outside. You toss the blanket back, sliding out of the bed with stiff limbs. You grab the hoodie that you had tossed onto the office chair, pulling it on and pulling your hair out of the neckline, letting it rest over one shoulder.   
You open the door with a loud groan, the door getting caught on the doorframe. Scout ran passed you again, sliding down the stairs loudly, sounding almost as if he were tumbling down instead of running. You heard him slide and fumble to regain his footing when he got to the main floor.   
You follow behind him, barely making a sound against the tile. You make your way to the kitchen, glancing to the stove where the time was displayed. Just past noon. You turn to the living room, barely acknowledging the woman who sat on the couch with your mom as you went to the back door, unlocking and opening it to let Scout run out into the backyard.   
“You should get the landlord to change this lock mom.” You say over your shoulder, almost letting yourself stare at the young man with shaggy brown hair that was sprawled rudely out on the loveseat. “Anyone could pick this easily.”  
The boy’s eyes were trailing over your body, his expression stiff as he took you in. Analyzing you, sizing you up. You caught his eyes when they reached up to your face, your expression was just as hard as his. His eyes were hooded, obstructing the true colour of his iris’. Even then, you could see the predatory look his was giving you.   
“I’ll make sure your dad lets Greg know.” You mom nods to you, giving you a smile. “Did you sleep well?”  
You shrug, glancing back out to the backyard where Scout was wandering the yard. “The smell of the mattress was annoying, but I’ll just spray it down later.” You tell her as you look over to her again. “It was also a little cold, but Scout made up for it.”   
“Good, you slept for a good amount of time.” She says, leaning back on the couch, a hot mug in her hands. “This is my friend Amanda Hockstetter, you remember her? She used to babysit you when you were younger.”  
“Barely.” You say honestly, looking over to the woman your mom was speaking of. It was true, you did have memories of her, albeit small and insignificant. “It’s nice to see you again.”  
Amanda gives you a smile, tightening her hands around her own mug. “You too darling, you’ve grown so beautiful.”   
“Thank you.” You reply, opening the back door as Scout jumped up onto the deck. The soaked dog came into the living room, and you reached over to grab a towel your mom had already laid out, prepared for this. “Scout, sit.”  
Scout looks at you, but doesn’t do as you say, and you find yourself bending down to take each of his paws to wipe them of the wet mud that clung to his hair. You rubbed his belly with the towel as well before rubbing along his back.   
“Y/N, this is my son Patrick.” Amanda says, signalling to the boy on the love seat. You glance up to him, catching his gaze once more. This time, he gives you a sly smirk with a wink.   
“Hey.” You nod to him, standing up and hanging the wet towel on the doorknob before walking into the kitchen to get a drink. “Is the kettle still hot?”  
“It should be!” your mom calls over to you. She falls back into conversation with Amanda, and you’re left alone as you maneuver the kitchen, locating where your mom had put the mugs and the sugar. Once finding your box of tea bags, you set it up, pouring the water into the mug over the bag.   
You watched as the clear water turned a purpleish hue with the natural dyes in the tea bag. When the mug was filled, you placed the kettle back on its stand, stirring in a spoonful of sugar.   
You turn around, jumping slightly at Patrick who was leaning against the doorframe, swatting at Scout’s nose to get him away from him. His smirk was on his lips once more, and you roll your eyes, walking past him – hissing quietly when you feel his hand graze your hip and backside.   
You twist out of his grip, giving the boy a glare as you move to the loveseat, curling up against the armrest with a sigh and a light blow to your tea, hoping to cool it down a little so you could drink it.   
Patrick was quick to take the seat next to you, his legs spreading at the knee while his heels stayed relatively close to each other. You stayed silent, focusing on the words your mother and Amanda exchanged as you examined Patrick Hockstetter – a name that pulled at a chord in your brain, tugging and twisting, trying to get you to remember it.   
His long legs – who’s legs need to be that long? – were clad in a dark grey denim, the tight fabric clinging to his limbs, pale knees sticking out of two strategically placed tears. You can’t quite make out the actual shape of a faded stick and poke tattoo that was on his right knee – was it a smiley face? Or a knife? With knives in mind, you saw the handle of one glinting in his left pocket. The handle was a dull silver with a black clip, almost unnoticeable, but you found it off that someone would actively carry a knife like that. Now quite a pocket knife, but not a switchblade.   
He still wore his boots, even though he was in your living room and they were dripping water and had mud caked to the bottom. Even the laces that were wrapped twice around his ankles and tied in a knot were leaking water onto the scratched wood floor.   
Your eyes trailed up his body, passing over the monochrome plaid shirt and obnoxiously jutting collarbones and Adam’s apple, catching his gaze for the smallest of moments before looking away quickly. You glance over to your mother, bringing your mug up to your lips to sip on it. You wince and recoil slightly from the still burning liquid as it hit your tongue.   
A chuckle hit your ears, and you look up once more. Patrick was staring at you with a sly grin. Everything in your body began to scream at you. Every nerve was tingling, from your eyes to your fingertips. Each hair on your body was raised. Something, something was screaming at you in your brain.   
Fight. Run. Stay.   
Each thought ran through your mind, and you turned away from Patrick completely, crossing your knee over the other as you leaned to the left over the armrest.   
“So, what are your plans after the summer?” Amanda asks you, glancing over from your mother as she sips on her coffee.   
You ponder for a few moments, taking your lip between your unbrushed teeth. “I don’t know.” You say honestly with a shrug. “I haven’t really thought past unpacking. Y’know?”  
“I would offer for you to hang out with Patrick, but his friends aren’t the best to have.” She tells you, shooting a look to her son before he could say anything back.   
You looked over just in time to see his eyes roll. He leans further back into the couch, and you release a sigh from your nose. You bring the mug up to your lips once more, sipping on your tea quietly as you return to being a bystander to the conversation. Your gaze wanders to Scout, who had settled by the back door on the towel you had used to dry him off with.   
You weren’t lying when you said that you didn’t know what you were going to do this summer. You didn’t know anything about Derry, or what there was to do around town when school wasn’t in. You hadn’t really gotten past learning where the school was and that you were going to map out multiple routes to the school just in case.   
Slight research of the underpopulated town had shown that it had a history of tragic happenings, and that July and August had some of the worst weather in Maine. With a constant flooding rain that closed down roads and buildings each year and cost thousands of dollars of repair for the small, almost failing shops each summer. You wouldn’t mind the summer though, you had no friends here and had planned to stay indoors or explore the town a little bit. Rain was always welcome in your mind.   
You tuned out the standard gossip the spewed from your mother and Amanda, sighing once more as you finished your tea. You stand and stretch for a small moment, leaning backwards so your stomach was arched and your muscles yelled at you for the movement.   
You walk around the couch, hip grazing Patrick’s fingers as you passed him on your way back to the kitchen to deposit your mug into the dishwasher. With your change of location, Scout had already gotten up, preparing to go back up to your room with you.   
You close the dishwasher with a kick of your heel and a bump of your hip, taking a moment to stare at the back of Patrick’s head. His long, dark hair smoothed back after the assault from his fingers. His entire being tugged at something in you, daring you to get closer and learn a little bit more.   
You had never been a risk taker, and today would be no different. You wouldn’t put yourself in the line of danger just because of an instinct you had. You’d be stupid to do such a thing, no matter how strong the pull to him was.   
You turned out if the kitchen, following the path to the stairs, your ears picking up on the now quiet conversation, the hushed tones rushed.   
“Stay away from her Patrick.” Your mother hisses, your steps stilling when you get to the landing halfway up the stairs.   
“She doesn’t remember you.” Amanda added quietly, urgently.   
“Her father and I made sure of it.” Your mother says. “You’re a monster.”  
“She’s always been mine.” Patrick says easily, you could almost hear the smirk he held on his face.   
“She has never, ever been yours Patrick Hockstetter.” Your mother tells him easily, the words coming out in a single breath.   
“You took her from me.” He says with an eerie calm. Adding more to a story you knew nothing about. Almost as if he knew you were listening to them.   
“She was never yours.” Amanda snaps. “You made sure of that when you strangled your brother.”  
“He squirmed.” Patrick says with a chuckle. “You should have seen how red he got.”  
A strangled cry comes from Amanda at the mention of her son’s death. “We would have never let her stay friends with you.” Your mother adds in over the cries. “You simply sped up the process. Now you leave my daughter alone. She didn’t go through years of therapy just for you to worm your way back into her life.”  
Therapy… You had no memory of going to therapy. There was no reason you had ever needed it. You were fine, you had always been fine. You begin up the stairs again, slipping into your room and closing the door behind you.   
You end up curled up in your chair, spinning slightly as you tap your foot against your desk on each spin to keep you going. One foot was resting on the chair, knee up to your chest. Both hands rested on the curve of the armrests, staring at the peeling paint and the crack that ran along the windowsill.   
Each childhood memory you could bring to the foreground of your mind was examined before you replaced it. Searching, searching for something that would hint to a forged memory. Something that was prominently missing.   
Each time you wracked your mind, you noticed inconsistencies. You were well aware that childhood amnesia began roughly around the age of seven, so there would be no reason that you would remember everything before that age. But even so, the more you examined, the more there was that didn’t fit together. There was still a feeling of dread and remorse from an event that you couldn’t locate in your brain.   
An event that had been horrible enough for your parents to fake a new job to move away from the small town of Derry.   
Your brows furrow. You focused on that one line, a conversation you had once overheard when you were a child.   
“She can’t stay here with that boy. I will not let my daughter be killed by him just like he killed his brother.” The distant voice of your mother said in the pits of your memories.   
“Darli-“ Your father retorts.  
“Don’t darling me!” Your mother hisses. “We all know Patrick Hockstetter killed his little brother! No one wants to admit it, but we all know it was him!”  
“Of course Patrick killed Avery. No one can prove it was him though. He’s only five!” Your father argues. “And now, you want to uproot our family?”  
“Absolutely! I will not let our daughter grow up near him!” Your mother wails “I don’t care if we have to move our family across the country. Across the world! I don’t want y/n anywhere near him anymore.”  
“I’ll see what I can do.” Your father sighs. You can hear him fall into the kitchen chair with a thump. The sights of you running up the stairs to return to your bed flashes through your mind.   
You saw the memory, saw it as clear as day. As if had happened only moments ago. You would never be able to describe the feeling that went through your body. The chills that trailed through your veins, or the dull thud that began at the base of your skull, or the sharp pain behind your eyes. There was no true name for the emotion you were experiencing. But no matter the word that you would be able to describe it as, you would only be able to relate it to anxious dread.   
Your eyes blur as they lose focus on reality. On the crack in the plaster in front of you. The line between your memories and what was in front of you was no longer separated. The pale green of your bedroom wall morphed with the green of the couch of the therapist’s office where you had once cried over the loss of your closest friend in the best way your three year old brain could comprehend. The creamy white of your windowsill and the swaying of the tree branches outside your window matched the hard rhythm of the small pen the therapist had waved in front of your eyes.  
“You’ll be sleepy soon, okay y/n?” Shirly, the older therapist with grey hair and kind brown eyes said gently to you. “I want you to sleep when you get tired, can you do that for me?”  
“Mhm.” You yawn, your eyes resting closed as Shirly talks to you in her soothing voice, lulling you into a soft sleep.   
“You’re not going to remember Patrick, or his little brother Avery.” Shirly tells you. Watching your small, curled up form in your mother’s arms. “You won’t remember being friends with Patrick, and you won’t remember that you ever met him. It’ll be like you never even met him.”  
“But I love Patrick.” You whimper in your small voice, eyes still closed. Your childish lisp muddling your words.  
“I know y/n. But he did a bad thing, and you want to be safe from him.” Your mother whispers softly, her fingers running through your brushed out hair.   
When you woke from your sleep, it was as if you had never heard of the name Patrick Hockstetter. The being who took up so much of your time and love in the daycare had ceased to exist. He was no longer the god he had viewed himself as. He was nothing.  
Your mind forces you to blink. The green of your wall and the cream of the windowsill return to your focus. The black crack standing out a little bit more as your gaze raises to look out the window. Despite being early afternoon, the sky was dark and covered with clouds. The rain still came down in harsh sheets across the surfaces of Derry. The wind blew harshly through the blades of glass and the branches of the old oak tree that rested in your backyard. The elements together against the siding of the house gave harsh noises as it hit the linoleum siding.   
You push your toes against the edge of the desk once more, spinning the chair until you faced your bedroom door. Your foot grazes the ground to still your movements, and your eyes meet those of the boy who was leaning against your doorframe.   
“You’re a horrible guard dog Scout.” You say quietly, glancing to your sleeping dog who was acting if nothing was wrong. As if your childhood best friend wasn’t a murderer or standing in your doorway.   
“He knows there’s nothing to be on guard about.” Patrick says slyly, pushing himself off of the doorframe, kicking his foot out to give him momentum to move forward. “I know you heard what my mother said.”  
“I did.” You say, leaning forward in your office chair. Both feet were on the ground, and you were ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.   
“You’re scared of me.” He comments, almost airily. His heavy footsteps bring him closer to you, and you notice the smallest upturn of his lips at the corner.   
“You killed someone.” You state simply. “Of course, I’m scared of you.”  
Another step closer, and he kneels in front of you, his eyes level with yours. There was a dangerous smirk on his face, eyes dark as they took you in.   
“You killed him too.” He whispers, leaning closer to you.   
His hair brushes against your cheek as his lips graze your ear. You shy away, every nerve in your body urging you, screaming at you to run. To cry out for help.   
“I’ve never hurt anyone.” You whimper, closing your eyes and turning your face away from his as he pulls back to stare at you.   
“You never stopped me. You watched me do it.” He laughs quietly. “You’re just as much of a killer as me.”  
You refuse to look at him. But his long, bony fingers grip your chin. A small flick of his wrist has your face directly in front of his. He leans in again, tilting his head ever so slightly.  
“Patrick!” Amanda calls from down the stairs. You feel the deep, annoyed sigh Patrick releases against your face.   
“Expect me back tonight.” He mutters, squeezing your face for a moment. You could see he clearly enjoyed the discomfort his action brought.   
“Everything will be locked.” You hiss, leaning back in the chair, away from him.   
“Anyone could walk in through that back door.” He tells you, standing up to his full height with a smirk. He turns on his heel, sauntering out of your room. You watched still as he almost skips down the stairs, his plaid shirt flowing behind him.  
“I told you to leave her alone!” You hear Amanda growl when you stood up to close your bedroom door. The door shuts quietly, though the top scratches the frame when you push it until the lock clicks.   
You find yourself sitting cross legged beside Scout, running your fingers through his fur. Your eyes had begun to blur once more, mind turning blank while the feeling of ultimate dread settling over you once more.  
You tried to focus on your memories, the ones that were slowly coming forward to give you more of a narrative to why Patrick was so adamantly attached to you.   
“Twick.” You whimper, tugging at the hem of his shirt.   
You were with him in Avery’s room. The light yellow of the walls faded in the dark room. Amanda had told you to leave the baby alone, that he wasn’t to play with. He’s too small and too fragile to play with. He needs sleep and food. Not to be bothered by toddlers.   
‘I’m not a toddler’ Patrick had said.   
‘You’re not to go near your brother’ Amanda had replied.  
You watched closely while Patrick walked over to the crib, climbing slightly to lean over the side and stare at the infant. He hated Avery. Everything was about Avery, everything. And Patrick Hockstetter did not like having competition.   
Patrick’s hand wrapped around Avery’s neck, a grin forming over his lips. He turns his head to look at you, still standing a few feet away.   
“It’s just going to be you and me again.” He tells you. “Just you and me.”  
You didn’t do anything as you watched him strangle his brother. You and me. Just you and Patrick. It will always be just you and Patrick.  
When Patrick jumped down from the crib, he turned back to you. You were his. He would never risk losing you to Avery. You were his, and only his.   
You were laying beside Scout, nose buried into the fur of his shoulder blades. You had watched Patrick kill Avery. And you not been inclined to ever tell anyone. You had felt nothing, other than a little bit of guilt when you were breaking the rules and going into Avery’s room in the first place. You had willingly watched the death of an infant.   
And you had done nothing.   
Your muscles yell at you when you push yourself off of the wood floor, a small groan releasing from your lips. The light coming from the room had faded, and you reach over to twist the dial to turn on your salt lamp. The pinkish red glow illuminated the room dimly, not enough to do anything under the light, but enough to see what was around the room.   
You pushed yourself up onto your knees and then to your feet, raising your arms over your head and going up to your toes. You arch your back ever so slightly, a release along your spine allowing it to pop nicely.   
Your feet take you to the kitchen, your stomach grumbling yet you were to emotional and lethargic to actually eat anything. You grab an apple from the fridge, rinsing it off in the sink and peeling the sticker off before following your trail back up your bedroom.   
Your parents had long since gone to sleep, the night early, but still of an appropriate time to doze off after a day of unpacking. You hop up onto the smelly mattress, pulling out your phone to scroll through some of your apps and check extra notifications while you ate the pink lady apple.  
“Twick!” You squeal, tugging on the black shaggy hair that hung from your friend’s head in tousled waves.   
“C’mon y/n.” He says, shaking his head, getting you to release your grip from his hair. His arms were around you, and you release a spew of giggles.   
He was partially carrying you, your toes still dragging against the carpeted floor. He had one of his rare, genuine smiles on his lips, teeth barred.   
“Mom says we’re moving.” You tell him, recalling the argument between your parents a few nights prior when they had thought you were sleeping.   
“What?” It was the only time you had ever seen him shocked, without words.   
He looked so angry. His five year old face was contorted from the smile to a scowl. He set you down, stepping away, but keeping his hand tightly around yours.   
“You’re not moving. You’re mine.” He says harshly, squeezing your fingers. “You’re mine. They can’t take you away from me.”  
“Daddy said he’s getting a new job.” You say, sniffing slightly. “So we gotta move.”  
“No.” Patrick insists. “You can’t. You can’t.”  
Patrick didn’t know how to cope with loss at his age, he couldn’t lose you. You were everything to him. You were the only real thing in the world to him.   
You turn your head when the bed beside you dips to the side. Patrick hadn’t changed in the years you hadn’t seen him. He was still horribly lanky and terrible with facial expressions. His hair was still a mess and his eyes still held the fact that you were his.  
You had always been his.   
“You’re not leaving again.” He tells you simply, crawling onto the bed beside you.   
“It wasn’t my choice to leave.” You say, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Take your boots off, I just washed my blanket.”  
Patrick lets out a huff, glancing at you as he sits up and begins to unlace his boots. “You could have stayed.”  
“That’s bullshit Patrick, and you know it.” You snap, your brows furrowing into a glare. “I was a kid. I went where my parents went.”  
“Well now you go where I go.” He tells you, looking over his shoulder as he kicks off his boots.   
“Says who?” You raise your eyebrow, staring at the boy who was so quick to take control over your life.  
“Says me.” He rolls his eyes, pushing himself back so he was leaning against your metal headboard.   
You let out a sigh, looking at his profile with his cute nose and strong jaw. “This isn’t going to work this way Patrick.” You say. “You’re not taking over my life.”  
“I am your life-“   
“No you’re not. I have friends, and I had a boyfriend back in California. I have Scout, and I have college coming up after I graduate. I have so much more than you.” You tell him.  
Your next breath is cut off by his fingers around your neck, his thumb and middle finger putting a harsh pressure against your airway. You squirm under his touch, whimpering slightly.   
“Pat.” You whimper, arching your hips off the bed as you try to get him to ease off the pressure on your throat.   
“I’ve waited so long for you to come back.” He mutters, glaring down at you. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”  
You nod weakly, bringing your hands up to his, trying to pry his hand away from you.   
“Say it.” He snaps, putting a little more pressure on you. “Say you’re mine.”  
You squeeze your eyes shut, breath coming in small gasps. “I’m yours.” You choke out. “I’m yours.”  
He nods, a smirk tugging at his lips. With another, final squeeze, he releases you. Running the same fingers that had been on you through his hair.   
“My girl.” He mummers, staring down at you with a look you couldn’t quite place. “I wanted to kill them y’know. When they took you.”  
“Who?” You ask quietly, though you already know the answer. You rolled off the bed, reaching for the water bottle you had on your bookshelf.  
“Your parents. They took you away from me.” He muses. “I dreamt about how I would kill them.”  
You stared at him, watching his expressions change. With each passing moment, your fear of him dwindled.   
“You look so perfect…So innocent. I’m going to fuck you so hard.” He growls, standing up from the bed, stalking towards you.  
You give him a shocked grin, stepping back towards the desk, watching him closely as he began to stalk you to the furniture item. “Is that so?” You ask with a sly smile “What if I want to fuck you?”  
“We’ll have time for everything.” He purrs. “Trust me.”  
You let out a squeal as he pounces, darting like a gazelle towards you. His large hands grip your hips, tugging you against his surprisingly hard body as he leans down, capturing your lip between his teeth.   
A quiet moan is released from your throat as he bites down, tugging ever so slightly to give you the soft pain that you craved. Your hands find themselves grabbing onto his pecs through his shirt, nails digging into the fabric.   
“I want this off.” You whisper to him. “I want it all off.”  
“You’re not the boss right now.” He mutters, grabbing your shirt in between his fingers before pulling it roughly up your torso, watching as you lift your arms above your head, so he could slide it off of your body, tossing it away easily.   
He can’t help but let out a loud, guttural moan as he sees the two little silver bars through your taut nipples, little flower petals surrounding them as if your nipples were sunflowers.  
“Sunflowers.” He says with a chuckle. “My little sin-flower.”  
You giggle at how horrible his joke was, but it easily trails off in a gasped whine when his calloused fingers pinch one of your nipples, twisting softly and pulling.  
“Oh.” you whimper, your back involuntarily arching to press your chest into his hand.   
“Such sweet noises you make.” He whispers, leaning in once more to give you an opened mouth kiss against your neck. “You’re so soft.”  
Another tweak of your nipple and you press your hands against him, pushing him away from you as you grab the hem of his shirt. “Off. Please, I need this off. I need to touch you.”  
Patrick only nods before lifting the tight shirt off of his toned body. You stare in awe once more, reaching out to run your fingertips gently over his pecs and chest.   
“You’re so handsome.” You say softly, stepping closer to him, watching as he closes his eyes while your other hand trails up his arm. “So handsome.”  
He leans into your gentle touch, his own hands trailing up and down your sides. Eventually latching his fingers into the waistband of your leggings. He gives a quick pull, forcing them over your hips before letting them fall down your thighs.  
The moment your pants hit the worn away wood floor, Patrick’s hand was wrapped around your bicep, spinning you and forcing you down so your chest was pressed against the desk, legs straight and your ass in the air.   
“Fuck.” Patrick snaps. “I could stare at this pretty little ass for the rest of my life.”  
You grin, turning your head to look at him. He’s enamoured, watching your bum as your adjust your legs to spread them, making your stance more comfortable.   
You close your eyes to relish in the loud moan he releases in response. You feel his fingers poke into your waistband, snapping the thin material against your waist.   
A moment later, the fabric was pushed to the side, leaving one cheek to face the cold air of the room. You’re almost about to protest, but a loud and hard smack is placed onto your skin.   
“Oh!” You screech, body lurching away from his hand, muscles tightening before relaxing again.   
“Again.” You beg, sticking your bum further out - towards him.   
“A little slut.” He laughs, his hand coming down once more.  
“Your little slut.” You correct him when the pleasure pain resided again.   
“God the noises you make could send a saint to sin.” He groans when his fingers rub against your clad cunt. Your making soft whines, rolling your hips against his hand to get the little bit of friction that you wanted to feel the pleasure from the pressure on your clit.  
“It’s a good thing you’re already a sinner.” You whisper, arching your back and forcing your pussy upwards for Patrick to look down on.   
His eyes glaze over with something you can’t name, his fingers hooking into your waistband to tug them away from your body, when the fabric resists, he growls and fumbles with the pocket knife he had in his jeans. The loud rip of the fabric echoing throughout the room and mixing with the sound of your heavy breathing.   
The sound that left Patrick’s throat was animalistic, barely human at all. You let out a small whimper, rocking your hips back against Patrick’s fingers - which were trailing down the soft flesh of your ass, his nails hooking into your skin lightly as he curled his fingers. He dragged them down, leaving long, angry red scratches down the skin of your ass.   
“Perfect.” He mummers. “Untouched. Mine.”  
One finger slips between the crack of your ass, following it down until his nail scraped around the entrance of your pussy. You whine, shifting away from the painful sensation.   
His other hand grips onto your hip, nails digging into your soft skin. His one arm pulls you back towards his fingers, he flicks them slightly, twisting his wrist so the pads of his fingers rubbed over your hole. Your body sags slightly, his index finger slipping into your wetness to the first joint before retreating.   
It slips into you once more, this time to the second joint. Out again, and then in to the knuckle. This process was repeated until you had three fingers plugging you, the tips brushing against your cervix with each breath he took.   
Your breath was shaky, your hand had risen to cover your mouth. Trying your hardest to turn out wanton moans into soft sighs. Praying that you wouldn’t wake up your parents.   
Patrick’s movements were slow…Torturous. He was not the type of person to take the time to pleasure his partner. But you.. Oh he wanted to ruin you. He wanted you so in tune with him that you could tell what he wanted just by a look. Because you were his. His, and only his.   
Patrick rotated his wrist, his fingers moving in a slow, scissoring motion in you. Spreading you wide for him. He could feel your juices slick between his fingers. Hear the loud squelching of it as he began to flick his wrist, starting up a fast motion that you couldn’t keep up with.   
It was barely moments before there was a tightness growing in your belly. Your body trembles against Patrick’s hand that held onto your side. “Come on.” He grumbles, glaring down at your back. “Cum.”  
“I’m not there yet Pat.” You whimper, rocking your hips against his hand.   
“Well get there.” He snaps, bringing his hand off your hip to bring it roughly across your ass.   
“It doesn’t work that way-“ You moan out. You feel his fingers start to retreat slowly, and you let out a long whine of protest. “Patrick no. Please not yet. I’m close.”  
“Not close enough.” He says. One more slap hits your ass, and he pulls away to fumble with his belt, growling as he tears it with the knife he had put beside you on the desk, tossing it away after a moment. His fingers latched through the button hole, pushing the button away and pulling down his zipper with a hiss.  
A quick push to his jeans and they were settled around his thighs. He didn’t need to take them off to fuck you.   
His hand wrapped around his red cock, twisting his hand roughly as he stares at your dripping pussy. “Gonna fuck it.” He grumbles. “Gonna fuck you.”  
His words came out it jumbled groan. A moment passed where he wasn’t over top of you, but then he pressed the head of his dick against your entrance, pushing in roughly. It was slow, but he pushed all the way in, his boney hips meeting the flesh of your ass.   
The moan that left your mouth was one you had never given before. He filled you up like no other. The pressure of his cock inside you as your walls clenched around him was almost too much to bare.   
“Paah-“ You moan out, closing your eyes when he began to pull out. You felt the loss of him immediately, and you blindly grab behind you to bring him back to you once more. Your finger digs into his hip, the bone jutting into the palm of your hand.   
“You’re a little fucking slut.” He tells you, staring down at your trembling body as he begins to rut his hips against your ass.   
“Your slut.” You correct him, rocking your hips back to try to get him deeper into you. “Patrick please fuck me.”  
He stares down at you, grabbing both cheeks of your ass in a tight grip before he pulls out of you completely. “Get on the bed. On your back. Legs open.” He orders, staring your down as you push yourself off the desk, standing and stumbling quickly over to the bed.   
Your back hits the hard mattress, the musty smell reaching up to your senses once more. But you couldn’t care. Not with the way that Patrick was looking at you with your legs open – for him. You were a meal. A feast. And he was going to devour you.   
He let you lay there for a minute before he sauntered over, kicking off his jeans in the process. Your mouth watered at the sight of him naked. His lean muscles and slender frame. His messy hair framing his angular face, dark eyes set on you.  
You can’t help but rock your hips as he settles between your legs. Both hands planted on either side of his head, body resting in a tight plank above you until he slowly dropped his hips to press against yours, his cock resting between your hot folds.   
“Patrick.” You sigh gently, hand reaching up to cup the cheek of your best friend.   
The moment was incredibly intimate, something that Patrick hadn’t expected. You had always been soft and gentle with him. But he never thought it would carry into him fucking you. He almost never took his girls in missionary. He hated staring at them. He just wanted the pleasure, not the attachment. And he was sure that now that he was staring at your deep, beautiful eyes, he would melt into your touch.  
You were so real to him. So genuine. Unlike everything around him that was a twisted dream that he got to play in, you were the one thing that could cause consequences. You were the one thing that could control him. You were his partner. His equal. His goddess. Everything about you was real.   
It terrified him, to see you under him with your soft gaze and naked body craving his touch. He loved it, but you were the one thing that could truly ruin him. You could ruin the game he had built for himself. Maybe one day he would have to kill you. Not today though. No, he would use you until you were dried up and withering away and couldn’t give him anything more.   
You gave him a harsh gasp as he adjusted his hips, his dick sliding back into your vagina and spreading your walls to accommodate him.   
Your back arches your hips upwards, forcing him to bottom out before he had intended to. But he couldn’t punish you, not with how cute your perky nipples looked in his face. Or how blissful your expression was.  
His smirk is evident as he begins to rock his hips, slow enough that you could feel each movement so clearly. You could feel every vein on his dick, every ridge and every drag against your walls with each move he made.   
Your eyes flutter shut as he thrusts his hips towards yours roughly, the head of his cock hitting your cervix as he forced himself in as far as he could go. It was almost painful, but the pleasure overrode the pain and discomfort your felt.   
“Mine.” He mutters, leaning down to bury his nose into your neck, his breath already shaky as his hips began a steady rhythm in and out of you, his ears being greeted with every whine when he pulled out to the breathy gasps when he forced himself back in.   
His hips began to pick up the pace when he felt a tightening in his groin, his muscles contorting and pushing him to an orgasm. One that he forced back, pulling his lips away from a deep hickey he was leaving into your neck and shoulder.  
His eyes caught yours, a glint in his that made you tremble. He was so dangerous, and you wouldn’t want anything less.   
Your hips arch upwards, meeting each one of his harsh thrusts, a smile on your face as you close your eyes, mouth opening in an ‘o’ as the muscles in your body began to contract, folding you inwards around Patrick until there was nothing but black, spots of white dancing across your vision.  
Loud cries were torn from your throat, your body trembling, shaking as you felt Patrick still against you, pressing his hips roughly into yours. His body was stuttering, hip bones meeting your thighs and shaking against your skin.   
His eyes were squeezed tight as streams of hot cum were shot up into you. Your cries assaulted his ears, the noise a little too high pitched for him to find enjoyable.   
He opened his blue eyes, staring down at your trembling body. One of your hands was gripping his bicep, the other curled around his ribcage with your nails dug into his skin, leaving small crescent shaped punctures that leaked small amounts of blood.   
When your body loosened and you fell limp against the bed, Patrick began to pull out, keeping his eyes on your face to watch your reaction.   
Your nose scrunches when you feel the annoying trickle of cum leaking out of you, and the bite of your lip to keep from crying from the loss of him once more. But your eyes open to meet his, your gaze much softer than his possessive smirk.   
“You’re mine.” He tells you. “And I’ll fucking kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”  
There was a pause as you stared at him.  
“And I’ll kill you if you ever try to leave.” He adds.   
Outside, the rain raged on, the droplets pelting across the siding of the house. The old wood creaked around you, the gentle snores of Scout resting on his bed echoed up to you.  
Everything was the same, except you. You would never be the same now.


End file.
